ilifornia 
ional 


LIBRARY 

Uiwv«r»ity   a! 

IRVINE 


"YtS  '    - 
KRVNGLE.-TO-NIG 


I*IFV  KRI3  •  KRIN6LC 


TALC 
3-WeiR-MITCHeLL 

WITM-ILLV3TRATION3 
CLYR>e  •  O  •  Ie>e  LAN© 


PS 


M 


COPYRIGHT,  1893,1904 
BY-3-Wem-MlTCtteLL 

TILL-  W6KT.5 


LV        THf-FOLLOWIN©- 

-5TORY  -NX/A.?  •  WW  TTtN  •  POR.-TKe 


TO 


:« 


LI3T  OP 
a  ILLV3TRnTION5  S 


"  Yes,  I  am  Kris  Kringle  to 
night"      Frontispiece 

She  bent  over  the  portrait  of 

a  young  man   -  Facing  page  48 

"  I  have  come  far,  very  far, 

to  see  you"    -  Facing  page  68 

He  had  found  a  great  mine 

of  gold       -  Facing  page  80 

"  O  Alice,  Mr.  Khwis  is  kiss 
ing  mamma "-       -       -      Facing  page  104 


ronewoRD 


FORCWORD 


1ANY  years  ago  a  woman  left 
childless,  on  whom  also  had 
fallen  a  great  sorrow,  turned 
for  relief  toward  helping  a 
crippled  child.  It  proved  difficult  to  find 
for  him  a  home  where  his  wants  and 
limitations  would  be  patiently  consid 
ered.  It  seemed  as  easy  to  care  for 
many  as  for  one,  and  so  a  small  house 
was  taken  and  thus  this  little  seed- 


thought  of  desire  to  help  one  lonely  waif 
grew  into  a  noble  charity.  It  has  seemed 
like  a  natural  growth,  and  as  to  a  great 
tree  of  shade  and  shelter  come  rain  and 
sunshine  to  refresh,  so  to  this  has  come 
unasked  for  now  twenty-one  years  all 
manner  of  helpful  aid.  A  want  is  dis 
covered  and  shortly  appears  some  one 
to  whom  this  silent  appeal  proves  irre 
sistible.  People  came  and  were  pleased 

16 


FOfieWORD 


at  the  organized  happiness  they  saw. 
So  one  offered  this  building  or  that,  and 
money  came,  year  after  year.  This  is 
like  no  other  institution.  There  are  no 
managers,  no  officials.  One  kindly  busy 
presence  is  the  ruling  heart  and  mind. 
To  her  aid  come  as  needed  women 
whose  names  I  no  more  know  than  I  do 
those  of  any  others  of  the  unseen  angels 
of  mercy. 

17 


RCWORD 


It  is  a  Home  for  the  Crippled,  and 
really  a  home.  There  is  love  and  hope 
and  play  and  little  trades  and  a  perma 
nent  rest  for  those  who  cannot  work;  a 
household  with  entire  absence  of  severe 
discipline,  a  family  of  the  inapt,  the 
broken  hi  body,  about  whom  is  an  atmos 
phere  of  provident,  indulgent  tender 
ness. 

Many  years  ago  I  wrote  to  help  this 

18 


PORCWORID 


wonderful  charity  the  story  which,  re 
printed  and  freshly  illustrated,  again 
seeks  the  approval  of  the  public.  Every 
copy  bought  is  a  contribution,  to  some 
degree,  to  the  Home  for  Crippled  Chil 
dren. 

But  after  you  have  read  this  little 
story,  and  of  the  pleasant  ending,  and 
of  the  two  happy  children,  let  me  ask 
of  you  to  think  of  those  little  ones, 

19 


whom  the  Home  guards  and  helps,  and 
to  give,  if  but  a  trifle,  to  assist  those  who, 
more  modest  than  I,  ask  of  no  one  what 
is  continually  needed — money ;  and  pray 
think  what  a  fairy  tale  it  is  and  of  what 
becomes  of  your  little  dime,  your  little 
bank  note,  your  big  cheque.  It  some 
how  disappears  hi  a  bank  and  suddenly 
it  has  changed  and  is  become  peace 
and  hope  and  happiness  and  food  for 


the  hungry  and  clothes  and  a  home 
with  security  of  such  joys  and  tender 
helping  as  least  of  all  the  crippled  child 
should  miss. 

Your  money  has  passed  through  the 
hands  of  a  good  woman  and  behold,  it  is 
thanks,  it  is  peace,  it  is  prayer. 

S.  WEIR  MITCHELL. 


MR-KRI5  vKRIN^LC 


T  was  Christmas  Eve.  The 
snow  had  clad  the  rolling 
hills  in  white,  as  if  in 
preparation  for  the  sacred 
morrow.  The  winds,  boisterous  all  day 
long,  at  fall  of  night  ceased  to  roar 
amidst  the  naked  forest,  and  now  the 
silent  industry  of  the  falling  flakes 

25 


made  of  pine  and  spruce  tall  white 
tents.  At  last,  as  the  darkness  grew, 
a  deepening  stillness  came  on  hill  and 
valley,  and  all  nature  seemed  to  wait 
expectant  of  the  coming  of  the  Christ 
mas  time. 

Above  the  broad  river  a  long,  gray 
stone  house  lay  quiet  amid  the  softly- 
falling  snow,  showing  no  sign  of  light 
or  life  except  hi  a  feeble,  red  glow 
through  the  Venetian  blinds  of  the  many 
26 


windows  of  one  large  room.  Within,  a 
huge  fire  of  mighty  logs  lit  up  with  dis 
tinctness  only  the  middle  space  and  fell 
with  variable  illumination  on  a  silent 
group  about  the  hearth. 

On  one  side  a  mother  sat  with  her 
cheek  upon  her  hand,  her  elbow  on  the 
table,  gazing  steadily  into  the  fire;  on 
the  other  side  were  two  children,  a  girl 
and  a  boy;  he  on  a  cushion,  she  in  a 
low  chair.  Some  half-felt  sadness  re- 
27 


pressed  for  these  little  ones  the  gay 
Christmas  humor  of  the  hopeful  hour, 
commonly  so  full  for  them  of  anticipa- 
tive  joy. 

Now  and  then  the  boy  looked  across 
the  room,  pleased  when  the  leaping 
flames  sent  flaring  over  floor  and  wall 
long  shadows  from  the  tall  brass  and 
irons  or  claw-footed  chair  and  table. 
Sometimes  he  glanced  shyly  at  the 
mother,  but  getting  no  answering  smile 
28 


kept  silence.  Once  or  twice  the  girl 
whispered  a  word  to  him,  as  the  logs 
fell  and  a  sheet  of  flame  from  the  hickory 
and  the  quick-burning  birch  set  free  the 
stored-up  sunshine  of  many  a  summer 
day.  A  moment  later,  the  girl  caught 
his  arm. 

"Oh!  hear  the  ice,  Hugh,"  she  cried, 
for  mysterious  noises  came  up  from  the 
river  and  died  away. 

"Yes,  it  is  the  ice,  dear,"  said  the 
29 


mother.  As  she  spoke  she  struck  a 
match  and  lighted  two  candles  which 
stood  on  the  table  beside  her. 

For  a  few  minutes  as  she  stood  her 
gaze  wandered  along  the  walls  over  the 
portraits  of  men  and  women  once  famous 
in  Colonial  days.  The  great  china  bowls, 
set  high  for  safety  on  top  of  the  book 
cases,  the  tankards,  and  the  tall  candel 
abra  troubled  her  with  memories  of 
30 


more  prosperous  times.  The  emotions 
and  bitterness  of  a  disappointed  life, 
however,  had  left  neither  on  brow  nor 
on  cheek  the  usual  signals  of  disaster. 
A  glance  distinctly  tender  and  distinctly 
proud  made  sweet  her  grave  and  beauti 
ful  face  as  for  a  moment  she  turned  to 
look  upon  the  children. 

The  little  fellow  on  the  cushion  at  her 
feet  looked  up. 


"Mamma,  we  do  want  to  know  why 
Christmas  comes  only  once  a  year. " 

"Hush,   dear,   I   cannot  talk  to   you 
now;  not  to-night;  not  at  all,  to-night. " 

"But  was  not  Christ  always  born?"  he 
persisted. 

"Yes,  yes,"  she  replied.  "But  I  can 
not  talk  to  you  now.  Be  quiet  a  little 
while.  I  have  something  to  do,"  and  so 
saying,  as  she  sat  down,  she  drew  to  her 
side  a  basket  of  old  letters. 
32 


The  children  remained  silent,  or  made 
little  signs  to  each  other  as  they  watched 
the  fire.  Meanwhile  the  mother  con 
sidered  the  papers,  now  with  a  gleam  of 
anger  in  her  eyes,  as  she  read,  and  now 
with  a  momentary  blur  of  tear-dimmed 
vision.  Most  of  the  letters  she  threw  at 
once  on  the  fire.  They  writhed  a  mo 
ment  like  living  creatures,  and  of  a 
sudden  blazed  out  as  if  tormented  into 
sudden  confession  of  the  passions  of 
33 


years  gone  by;  then  they  fell  away 
to  black  unmemoried  things,  curling 
crumpled  in  the  heat. 

The  children  saw  them  burn  with 
simple  interest  in  each  new  conflagra 
tion.  Something  hi  the  mother's  ways 
quieted  them,  and  they  became  intui 
tively  conscious  of  sadness  hi  the  hour 
and  the  task.  At  last  the  boy  grew 
uneasy  at  the  long  repose  of  tongue. 

"0  Alice!   see  the  red  sparks  going 

34 


about,"  he  said,  looking  at  the  wander 
ing  points  of  light  in  the  blackening 
scrolls  of  shrivelled  paper. 

"Nurse  says  those  are  people  going 
to  church,"  said  his  sister  authorita 
tively. 

Her  mother  looked  up,  smiling.  "Ah, 
that  is  what  they  used  to  tell  me  when 
I  was  little." 

"They're  fire-flies,"  said  the  boy,  "like 
in  a  vewy  dark  night."  Now  and  then 

35 


his  r's  troubled  him  a  little,  and  con 
scious  of  his  difficulty,  he  spoke  at  tunes 
with  oddly  serious  deliberation. 

"You  really  must  keep  quiet,"  said 
the  mother.  "Now,  do  keep  still,  or 
you  will  have  to  go  to  bed,"  and  so 
saying  she  turned  anew  to  the  basket. 

Presently   the   girl   exclaimed,   "Why 

do    you    burn    the    letters?"    She    had 

some  of  her  mother's  persistency,  and 

was  not  readily  controlled.    This  tune 

36 


the  mother  made  no  reply.  A  sharp 
spasm  of  pain  went  over  her  features. 
Looking  into  the  fire,  as  if  altogether 
unconscious  of  the  quick-witted  spies  at 
her  side,  she  said  aloud,  "Oh!  I  can  read 
no  more!  Let  them  wait.  What  a  fool 
I  was.  What  a  fool!"  and  abruptly 
pushed  the  basket  aside. 

The  little  fellow  leaped  up  and  cast 
his  arms  about  her  while  his  long,  yel 
low  hair  fell  on  her  neck  and  shoulder. 

37 


"0  Mamma!"  he  cried,  "don't  read 
any  more.  Let  me  burn  them.  I  hate 
them  to  hurt  you." 

She  smiled  on  him  through  tears — rare 
things  for  her.  "Every  one  must  bear 
his  own  troubles,  Hugh.  You  couldn't 
help  me.  You  couldn't  know,  dear, 
what  to  burn." 

"But  I  know,"  said  the  girl,  deci 
sively.  "I  know.  I  had  a  letter  once; 
but  Hugh  never  had  a  letter.  I  wish 
38 


Kris  Kringle  would  take  them  away  this 
very,  very  night;  and  lessons,  too,  I  do. 
What  will  he  bring  us  for  Christmas, 
mamma?  I  know  what  I  want—  " 

"A  Kris  Kringle  to  take  away  troubles 
would  suit  me  well,  Alice;  I  could  hang 
up  a  big  stocking." 

"And  I  know  what  I  want,"  said 
the  boy.  "Nurse  says  Kris  has  no 
money  this  Christmas.  I  don't  care." 
But  the  great  blue  eyes  filled  as  he  spoke. 

39 


The  mother  rose.  "There  will  be  no 
presents  this  year,  Hugh.  Only — only 
more  love  from  me,  from  one  another; 
and  you  must  be  brave  and  help  me, 
because  you  know  this  is  not  the  worst 
of  it.  We  are  to  go  away  next  week, 
and  must  live  in  the  town.  You  see, 
dears,  it  can't  be  helped." 

"Yes,"   said   Hugh,   thoughtfully,   "it 

can't  be  helped,  Alice." 
40 


"I  don't  want  to  go,"  said  the  girl. 

"Hush,"  said  Hugh. 

"And  I  do  want  a  doll." 

"I  told  you  to  be  quiet,  Alice,"  re 
turned  her  mother,  a  rising  note  of 
anger  hi  her  voice.  In  fact,  she  was 
close  upon  a  burst  of  tears,  but  the  emo 
tions  are  all  near  of  kin  and  linked  hi 
mystery  of  relationship.  Pity  and  love 
for  the  moment  became  unreasoning 


wrath.  "You  are  disobedient,"  she  con 
tinued. 

"0  mamma!  we  are  vewy  sorry," 
said  the  lad,  who  had  been  the  less 
offending  culprit. 

"Well,  well.  No  matter.  It  is  bed 
time,  children.  Now  to  bed,  and  no 
more  nonsense.  I  can't  have  it.  I  can't 
bear  it." 

The  children  rose  submissively,  and, 
kissing  her,  were  just  leaving  the  room, 
42 


when  she  said:  "Oh!  but  we  must  not 
lose  our  manners.  You  forget." 

The  girl,  pausing  near  the  doorway, 
dropped  a  courtesy. 

"That  wasn't  very  well  done,  Alice. 
Ah!  that  was  better." 

The  little  fellow  made  a  bow  quite 
worthy  of  the  days  of  minuet  and  hoops, 
and  then,  running  back,  kissed  the  tall 
mother  with  a  certain  passionate  ten 
derness,  saying  softly,  "Now,  don't  you 
43 


cry  when  we  are  gone,  dear,  dear  mam 
ma;"  then,  in  a  whisper,  "I  will  pway 
God  not  to  let  you  cwy,"  and  so  Hugh 
fled  away,  leaving  her  still  perilously 
close  to  tears.  Very  soon,  up-stairs, 
the  old  nurse,  troubled  by  the  children's 
disappointment,  was  assuring  them  with 
eager  mendacity  that  Kris  would  be  cer 
tain  to  make  his  usual  visit,  while  down 
stairs  the  mother  walked  slowly  to  and 
fro.  She  had  that  miserable  gift,  an 

44 


unfailing  memory  of  anniversaries,  and 
now,  despite  herself,  the  long  years 
rolled  back  upon  her,  so  that  under  the 
sad  power  of  their  recurrent  memories 
she  seemed  a  helpless  prey. 

While  the  children  were  yet  too  young 
to  recognize  their  loss  the  great  calam 
ity  of  her  life  had  come.  Then  by  de 
grees  the  wreck  of  her  fortune  had  gone 
to  pieces,  and  now  at  last  the  old  home 
of  her  own  people,  deeply  mortgaged, 

45 


was  about  to  pass  from  her  forever. 
Much  that  was  humbling  had  fallen  to 
her  in  life,  but  nothing  as  sore  as  this 
final  disaster.  At  length  she  rose,  took 
a  lighted  candle  from  the  table,  and 
walked  slowly  around  the  great  library. 
The  sombre  bindings  of  the  books  that 
her  childhood  knew  called  back  dim 
recollections.  The  great  china  bowls, 
the  tall  silver  tankards,  the  shining 
sconces,  and,  above  all,  the  Stuart  por- 
46 


traits  and  the  Copleys  of  men  who  had 
shone  in  Colonial  days  and  helped  to 
make  a  more  than  imperial  nation,  each 
and  all,  disturbed  her  as  she  gazed.  At 
last  she  returned  to  the  fireside,  sat 
down  and  began  anew  her  unfinished 
task.  With  hasty  hands  she  tumbled 
over  the  letters  and  at  length  came  upon 
a  package  tied  with  a  faded  ribbon;  one 
of  those  thin  orange-colored  silk  bands 
with  which  cigars  are  tied  in  bundles. 

47 


She  threw  it  aside  with  a  quick  move 
ment  of  disdain  and  opened  the  case  of 
a  miniature  slowly  and  with  deliberate 
care.  A  letter  fell  upon  her  lap  as  she 
bent  over  the  portrait  of  a  young  man. 
The  day,  the  time,  the  need  to  dispose  of 
accumulated  letters,  had  brought  her  to 
this  which  she  meant  to  be  a  final  settle 
ment  of  one  of  life's  grim  accounts, 
For  awhile  she  steadily  regarded  the 
relics  of  happier  hours.  Then,  throwing 
48 


herself  back  in  her  chair,  she  cried 
aloud,  "How  long  I  hoped;  how  hope 
less  was  my  hope,  and  he  said,  he  said 
I  was  cruel  and  hard.  That  I  loved  him 
no  more.  Oh!  that  was  a  lie!  a  bitter 
lie !  But  how  could  I  watch  my  children 
grow  up  to  see  what  I  saw,  and  learn  to 
bear  what  I  have  borne.  No!  no!  a 
thousand  tunes  no!  I  chose  between 
two  duties,  and  I  was  right.  I  was  the 
man  of  the  two,  and  I  sent  him  away 

49 


— forever.  He  said, — yes,  I  was  right; 
but,  my  God!  how  cruel  is  life!  I  would 
never  have  gone,  never!  never!  There!" 
she  exclaimed,  and  closing  the  miniature 
with  violence,  threw  it  back  into  the 
basket,  as  one  may  shut  an  unpleasant 
book  read  and  done  with. 

For  a  moment,  and  with  firmer  face, 
she  considered  the  letter,  reading  scraps 
of  it  aloud,  as  if  testing  her  resolution  to 
50 


make  an  end  of  it  all.  "Hard,  was  I? 
Yes.  Would  I  had  been  hard  sooner. 
My  children  would  have  been  better  off. 
He  wrote,  *  I  went  because  you  bade  me 
go.'  Yes,  I  did.  Will  he  ever  know 
what  that  cost  me?  'I  shall  never  come 
again  until  you  bid  me  come.1  Not  in 
this  world,  then,"  she  cried.  "0  Hugh! 
Hugh!"  And  in  a  passion  of  tears  that 
told  of  a  too  great  trial,  but  still  resolute 


despite  her  partial  defeat,  she  tore  the 
letter  and  cast  it  on  the  fire.  "There!" 
she  cried,  "would  to  God  I  loved  him 
less."  Then,  with  strange  firmness,  she 
took  up  a  book  and  sternly  set  herself 
to  comprehend  what  she  read. 

The  hours  went  by  and  at  last  she 
rose  wearily,  put  out  one  candle,  raked 
ashes  over  the  embers,  and  taking  the 
other  light,  went  slowly  up  to  bed.  She 
paused  a  moment  at  the  nursery  door 
52 


where  she  heard  voices.    "What!  awake 
still,"  she  cried. 

"We  was  only  talking  about  Khwis," 
said  the  small  boy.  "We  won't  any 
more,  will  we,  Alice?  She  thinks  he 
won't  come,  but  I  think  he  will  come 
because  we  are  both  so  good  all  to-day." 

"No,  no,  he  will  not  come  this  Christ 
mas,  my  darlings.  Go  to  sleep.  Go  to 
sleep,"  and  with  too  full  a  heart  she 
turned  away. 

53 


But  the  usual  tranquil  slumber  of 
childhood  was  not  Hugh's,  at  least.  The 
fact  that  they  were  soon  to  leave  their 
home  troubled  the  imaginative  little  man. 
Then,  too,  a  great  wind  began  to  sweep 
over  the  hills  and  to  shake  the  snow- 
laden  pines.  On  its  way,  it  carried  afresh 
from  the  ice  of  the  river  wild  sounds  of 
disturbance  and  at  length  hi  the  mid 
hours  of  night,  an  avalanche  of  snow 
slid  from  the  roof.  Hugh  sat  up;  he 

54 


realized  well  enough  what  had  happened. 
But  presently  the  quick  ear  of  childhood 
was  aware  of  other  and  less  familiar 
sounds.  Was  it  Kris  Kringle?  Oh!  if 
he  could  only  see  him  once!  He  touched 
the  sister  asleep  in  her  bed  near  by,  and 
at  last  shook  her  gently. 

"What  is  it,  Hugh?"  she  said. 
"I  hear  Khwis.    I  know  it  is  Khwis!" 
"0  Hugh!    I  hear,  too,  but  it  might 
be  a  robber." 

55 

r££= 


"No,  nevah  on  Chwistmas  Eve.  It 
couldn't  be  a  wobber.  It  is  Khwis.  I 
mean  to  go  and  see.  I  hear  him  out 
side.  You  know,  Alice,  there  is  nevah, 
nevah  any  wickedness  on  Chwistmas 
Eve." 

"But  if  it  is  a  robber  he  might  take 
you  away." 

"Oh!  wobbers  steal  girls,  but  they 
nevah,  nevah  steal  boys,  and  you  needn't 


"But  are  you  sure?  Oh!  do  listen," 
she  added.  Both  heard  the  creaking 
noise  of  footsteps  in  the  dry  snow. 
•  "I  will  look — I  must  look,"  cried 
Hugh,  slipping  from  his  bed.  In  a  mo 
ment  he  had  raised  the  sash  and  was 
looking  out  into  the  night.  The  sounds 
he  had  heard  ceased.  He  could  see  no 
one.  "He  has  gone,  Alice."  Then  he 
cried,  "Mr.  Khwis  Kwingle,  are  you 
there?  or  is  you  a  wobber?"  As  he 

57 


spoke  a  cloaked  man  came  from  behind 
a  great  pine  and  stood  amid  the  thickly- 
falling  flakes. 

"Why,  that  is  Hugh,"  he  said. 
"Hugh!" 

"He  does  know  my  name,"  whispered 
the  lad  to  the  small  counsellor  now  at 
his  side. 

"And,  of  course,  I  am  Kris  Kringle. 
And  I  have  a  bag  full  of  presents.  But 
come  softly  down  and  let  me  in,  and 
58 


don't  make  a  noise  or  away  I  go;  and 
bring  Alice." 

The  girl  was  still  in  doubt,  but  her 
desire  for  the  promised  gifts  was  strong, 
and  in  the  very  blood  of  the  boy  was  the 
spirit  of  daring  adventure.  There  was 
a  moment  of  whispered  indecision,  re 
sulting  in  two  bits  of  conclusive  wisdom. 

Said  Alice,  "If  we  go  together,  Hugh, 
and  he  takes  one,  the  other  can  squeal. 
Oh!  very  loud  like  a  bear — a  big  bear." 

59 


"And,"  said  Hugh,  "I  will  get  my 
gweat  gwandpapa's  sword."  And  with 
this  he  got  upon  a  chair  and  by  the  fail 
ing  light  of  the  nursery  fire  carefully 
took  down  from  over  the  chimney  the 
dress  rapier  which  had  figured  at  peace 
ful  levees  of  other  days.  "Now,"  he 
said,  "if  you  are  afwaid  I  will  go  all 
alone  myself." 

"I  am  dreadfully  afraid,"  said  she, 
60 


"but  I  will  go,  too."  So  she  hastily  drew 
on  a  little  white  wrapper  and  her  slippers 
and  he  his  well-worn  brown  velvet 
knickerbocker  trousers.  Neither  had 
ever  known  a  being  they  had  reason  to 
fear,  and  so,  with  beating  hearts,  but 
brave  enough,  they  stole  quietly  out  hi 
their  sweet  innocence  and  hand  hi  hand 
went  down  the  dark  staircase,  still  hear 
ing  faint  noises  as  they  felt  their  way. 
61 


They  crossed  the  great  warm  library  and 
entered  the  hall,  where,  with  much 
effort,  they  unlocked  the  door  and  lifted 
the  old-fashioned  bar  which  guarded  it. 
The  cold  air  swept  in,  and  before  them 
was  a  tall  man  in  a  cloak  half  white  with 
snow.  He  said  at  once,  "Oh!  Hugh! 
Alice!  Pleasant  Christmas  to  you.  Let 
us  get  in  out  of  the  cold;  but  carefully 
—carefully,  no  sound!"  As  he  spoke 
he  shut  the  door  behind  him.  "Come," 
62 


he  said,  and  seeming  to  know  the  way, 
went  before  them  into  the  library. 

"Oh!  I'm  so  frightened,"  said  Alice 
to  Hugh  in  a  whisper.  "I  wish  I  was 
hi  bed." 

Not  so  the  boy.  The  man  pushed 
away  the  ashes  from  the  smouldering 
logs,  and  took  from  the  wood  basket  a 
quantity  of  birch  bark  and  great  cones 
of  the  pine.  As  he  cast  them  on  the 
quick  embers  a  fierce  red  blaze  went  up, 
63 


and  the  room  was  all  alight.  And  now 
he  turned  quickly,  for  Hugh,  of  a  mind 
to  settle  the  matter,  was  standing  on 
guard  between  him  and  the  door  to  the 
stairway,  which  they  had  left  open  when 
they  came  down.  The  man  smiled  as 
he  saw  the  lad  push  his  sister  back  and 
come  a  step  or  two  forward.  He  made 
a  pretty  picture  in  his  white  shirt,  brown 
knee-breeches,  and  little  bare  legs,  the 
yellow  locks  about  his  shoulders,  the 

64 


rapier  in  his  hand,  as  he  stood  alert  and 
quite  fearless. 

"My  sister  thinks  perhaps  you  are  a 
wobber,  sir;  but  I  think  you  are  Mr. 
Khwis  Kwingle." 

"Yes,  I  am  Kris  Kringle  to-night,  and 
you  see  I  know  your  names— Alice, 
Hugh."  His  cloak  fell  from  him,  and 
he  stood  smiling,  a  handsome  Kris. 
"Do  not  be  afraid.  Be  sure  I  love  little 
children.  Come,  let  us  talk  a  bit." 

65 


"It's  all  wite,  Alice,"  said  the  boy. 
"I  said  he  wasn't  a  wobber." 

And  now  quite  at  ease  they  went  hand 
in  hand  toward  the  brilliant  blaze  of  the 
fire.  The  man  leaned  heavily  upon  a 
chair  back,  his  lips  moving,  a  great  stir 
of  emotion  shaking  him  as  he  gazed  on 
the  little  ones. 

"Well,  you  see,  my  children,  that  I 
am  really  Kris  Kringle,"  and  then,  with 
much  amusement,  "but  what  do  you 
66 


mean  to  do  with  your  sword,  my  little 
man?" 

"It  was  to  kill  the  wobber,  sir;  but 
you  musn't  be  afraid,  because  you're  not 
a  wobber." 

"An'  he  really  won't  hurt  you,"  added 
Alice. 

"Good  gracious!"  exclaimed  Kris, 
smiling,  "you're  a  gallant  little  gentle 
man.  And  you  have  been — are  you  al 
ways  a  good  boy  to— your  mother?" 

67 


"I  has  been  a  vewy  good  boy."  Then 
his  conscience  entered  a  protest,  and  he 
added:  "for  two  whole  days.  I'll  go 
and  ask  mamma  to  come  and  tell  you." 

"No,  no,"  said  Kris.  "It  is  only 
children  that  can  see  me.  Old  folks 
couldn't  see  me." 

"My  mother  is  vewy  young." 

"Oh!  but  not  like  a  child;  not  like 
you." 

"Please,  sir,  to  let  us  see  the  presents," 
68 


said  Alice,  much  at  her  ease.  For  now 
he  pushed  a  great  chair  to  the  fire,  and 
seated  them  both  in  it,  saying:  "Ah! 
the  poor  little  cold  toes."  Then  he  care 
fully  closed  the  door  they  had  left  open, 
and  said,  smiling  as  he  sat  down,  "I 
have  come  far — very  far— to  see  you." 

"Has  you  come  far  to-night?"  said 
the  little  host,  with  rising  courage. 

"No,  not  far  to-night."  Then  he 
paused.  "Is— is  your  mother— well? " 

69 


"Yes,"  said  Hugh,  "she  is  vewy  well, 
and  we  are  much  obliged." 

"May  we  soon  see  the  presents?"  said 
Alice.  "They  did  say  you  would  not 
come  to-night  because  we  are  poor  now." 

"And,"  added  Hugh,  "my  pony  is  sold 
to  a  man,  and  his  tail  is  vewy  long,  and 
he  loves  sugar — the  pony,  I  mean;  and 
mamma  says  we  must  go  away  and  live 

in  the  town." 

70 


"Yes,  yes,"  said  Kris.    "I  know." 

"He  knows,"  said  Hugh,  nodding  his 
head  decisively. 

"Oh!  they  know  everything  in  fairy 
land,"  said  Alice. 

"Was  you  evah  in  faywyland,  sir?" 
asked  Hugh. 

"Yes." 

"Where  'bouts  is  it,  sir,  and  please 
how  is  it  bounded  on  the  north?  And 


what  are  the  pwincipal  wivers?  We 
might  look  for  it  on  the  map  if  you  will 
tell  us  where  it  is." 

"It  is  in  the  Black  Hills." 

"  Oh !  the  Black  Hills,"  said  Alice.  "  I 
know." 

"Yes,  but  you're  not  sleepy?  Not  a 
bit  sleepy?" 

"No,  no." 

"Then  before  the  pretty  things  hop 
out  of  my  bag  let  me  tell  you  a  story," 
72 


and  he  smiled  at  his  desire  to  lengthen 
a  delicious  hour. 

"I  should  like  that." 

"And  I  hope  it  won't  be  very,  very 
long,"  said  Alice,  intent  on  more  sordid 
things. 

"That's  the  way  with  girls,  Mr.  Kwin- 
gle;  they  can't  wait." 

"Ah,  well,  well.  Once  on  a  time 
there  was  a  bad  boy,  and  he  was  very 
naughty,  and  no  one  loved  him  because 
73 


he  spent  love  like  money  till  it  was  all 
gone.  When  he  found  he  had  no  more 
love  given  him,  he  went  away,  and  away, 
to  a  far  country." 

"Like  the  man  in  the  Bible,"  said 
Hugh,  promptly.  "The — the— what's  his 
name,  Alice?" 

"The  prodigal  son,"  said  Kris,  "you 
mean—  " 

"Yes,  sir.    The  pwodigal  son." 

"Yes,  like  the  prodigal  son." 

74 

=5* 


"Well,  at  last  he  came  to  the  Black 
Hills,  and  there  he  lived  with  other 
rough  men." 

"But  you  did  say  he  was  a  boy,"  said 
Alice,  accurately  critical. 

"He  was  gwowed  up,  Alice.  Don't 
you  int—  inter— " 

"Interrupt,  you  goosey,"  said  Alice,  a 
trifle  impatiently. 

"One  Christmas  Eve  these  men  fell  to 
talking  of  their  homes,  and  made  up 

75 


their  minds  to  have  a  good  dinner.  But 
Hugh—" 

"Oh!"  exclaimed  the  lad,  "Hugh! 
was  that  his  name?" 

Mr.  Kris  nodded  and  continued. 
"But  Hugh  felt  very  weak  because  he 
was  just  getting  well  of  a  fever,  yet  they 
persuaded  him  to  come  to  table  with  the 
rest.  One  man,  a  German,  stood  up  and 
said,  'This  is  the  eve  of  Christmas.  I 
will  say  our  grace,  what  we  say  at  home/ 
76 


One  man  laughed,  but  the  others  were 
still.  Then  the  German  said, 

'  Come,  Lord  Christ,  and  be  our  guest, 
Take  with  us  what  Thou  hast  blest.' 

When  Hugh  heard  the  German  he  began 
to  think  of  home  and  of  many  Christ 
mas  Eves,  and  because  he  felt  a  strange 
ness  in  his  head,  he  said,  'I'm  not  well; 
I  will  go  into  the  air.*  As  he  moved, 
he  saw  before  him  a  man  in  the  door- 

77 


way.  The  face  of  the  man  was  sad, 
and  his  garment  was  white  as  snow. 
He  said,  'Follow  me.'  But  no  others, 
except  Hugh,  saw  or  heard.  Now,  when 
Hugh  went  outside,  the  man  he  had 
seen  was  gone;  but  being  still  con 
fused,  Hugh  went  over  the  hard  snow 
and  among  trees,  not  knowing  what  he 
did;  and  at  last  after  wandering  a  long 
time  he  came  to  a  steep  hillside.  Here 
he  slipped  and  rolling  down  fell  over  a 
78 


high  place.  Down,  down,  down  he  fell, 
and  he  fell—" 

"Oh!  make  him  stop,"  cried  little 
Hugh,  excitedly  clasping  his  hands.  "  I 
do  want  him  to  stop." 

"He  fell  upon  a  deep  bed  of  soft  snow 
and  was  not  hurt,  but  soon  got  up,  and 
thought  he  was  buried  in  a  white  tomb. 
Presently  he  understood  and  his  head 
grew  clearer  and  he  beat  the  snow  away 
and  got  out.  Then,  first  he  said  a  prayer, 

79 


and  that  was  the  only  prayer  he  had 
said  in  a  long  time." 

"Oh  my!"  exclaimed  little  Hugh.  "I 
did  think  people  could  nevah  sleep  unless 
they  say  their  prayers.  That's  what 
nurse  says.  Doesn't  she,  Alice?" 

And  just  here  Kris  had  to  wipe  his 
eyes,  but  he  took  the  little  fellow's  hand 
in  his  and  went  on. 

"Soon  he  found  shelter  under  a  elm*, 
80 


where  no  snow  was,  and  with  his  flint 
and  steel  struck  a  light,  and  made  with 
sticks  and  logs  a  big  fire.  After  this  he 
felt  warm  and  better  all  over  and  fell 
asleep.  When  he  woke  up  it  was  early 
morning,  and  looking  about,  he  saw  in 
the  rock  little  yellow  streaks  and  small 
lumps,  and  then  he  knew  he  had  found 
a  great  mine  of  gold  no  man  had  ever 
seen  before.  By  and  by  he  got  out  of 


the  valley  and  found  his  companions, 
and  in  the  spring  he  went  to  his  mine, 
which,  because  he  had  found  it,  was  all 
his  own,  and  he  got  people  to  work  there 
and  dig  out  the  gold.  After  that  he  was 
no  longer  poor,  but  very,  very  rich." 

"And  was  he  good  then?"  said  Hugh. 

"And  did  he  go  home,"  said  Alice, 
"and  buy  things?" 

"Yes,  he  went.  One  night  he  went 
home  and  saw  his  house  and  little  chil- 
82 


dren,  and— but  he  will  not  stay,  because 
there  is  no  love  waiting  in  his  house,  and 
all  the  money  in  the  world  is  no  good 
unless  there  is  some  love  too.  You  see, 
dear,  a  house  is  just  a  house  of  brick  and 
mortar,  but  when  it  is  full  of  love,  then 
it  is  a  home." 

"I  like  that  man,"  said  Hugh.    "Tell 
me  more." 

"But  first,"  said  Alice,  "oh!    we  do 
want  to  see  our  presents." 
83 


"Ah,  well.  That  is  all,  I  think;  and 
the  presents.  Now  for  the  presents." 
Then  he  opened  a  bag  and  took  out  first 
a  string  of  great  pearls,  and  said,  as  he 
hung  them  around  Alice's  neck,  "There, 
these  the  oysters  made  for  you  years  ago 
under  the  deep  blue  sea.  They  are  for 
a  wedding  gift  from  Kris.  They  are 
too  fine  for  a  little  maid.  No  Queen  has 
prettier  pearls.  But  when  you  are  mar 
ried  and  some  one  you  love  vexes  you  or 
84 


is  unkind,  look  at  these  pearls,  and  for 
give,  oh!  a  hundred  times  over;  twice, 
thrice,  for  every  pearl,  because  Kris  said 
it.  You  won't  understand  now,  but  some 
day  you  will." 

"Yes,  sir,"  said  Alice,  puzzled,  and 
playing  with  the  pearls. 

Said  Hugh,  "You  said,  Mr.  Khwis, 
that  the  oysters  make  pearls.  Why  do  the 
oysters  make  pearls?" 

"I  will  tell  you,"  replied  Kris.  "If  a 
85 


bit  of  something  rough  or  sharp  gets  in 
side  the  oyster's  house,  and  it  can't  be 
got  rid  of,  the  oyster  begins  to  make  a 
pearl  of  it,  and  covers  it  over  and  over 
until  the  rough,  rude  thing  is  one  of 
these  beautiful  pearls." 

"I  see,"  said  Hugh. 

"That  is  a  little  fairy  tale  I  made  for 
myself;  I  often  make  stories  for  my 
self." 

"That  must  be  very  nice,  Mr.  Khwis. 
86 


How  nice  it  must  be  for  your  little 
children  every  night  when  you  tell  them 
stories." 

"Yes— yes"— and  here  Kris  had  to 
wipe  his  eyes  with  his  handkerchief. 

"Isn't  that  a  doll?"  Alice  asked,  look 
ing  at  the  bag. 

"Yes;    a  doll  from  Japan." 

"Oh!"  exclaimed  Alice. 

"And  boxes  of  sugar-plums  for  Christ 
mas,"  he  added.  "And,  Hugh,  here  are 

87 


skates  for  you  and  this  bundle  of 
books." 

"Thank  you,  sir." 

"And  these — and  these  for  my — for 
Alice,"  and  Kris  drew  forth  a  half-dozen 
delicate  Eastern  scarves  and  cast  them, 
laughing,  around  the  girl's  neck  as  she 
stood  delighted. 

"And  now  I  want  to  trust  you.  This 
is  for — for  your  mother;  only  an  en 
velope  from  Kris  to  her.  Inside  is  a 
88 


fairy  paper,  and  whenever  she  pleases  it 
will  turn  to  gold— oh!  much  gold,  and 
she  will  be  able  then  to  keep  her  old 
home  and  you  need  never  go  away,  and 
the  pony  will  stay." 

"Oh!  that  will  be  nice.  We  do  sank 
you,  sir;  don't  we,  Alice?" 

"Yes.  But  now  I  must  go.  Kiss  me. 
You  wtll  kiss  me?"  He  seemed  to  doubt 
it. 

"Oh!  yes,"  they  cried,  and  cast  their 
89 


little  arms  about  him  while  he  held 
them  in  a  long  embrace,  loath  to  let 
them  go. 

"0  Alice!"  said  Hugh,  "Mr.  Khwis 
is  cwying.  What's  the  matter,  Mr. 
Khwis?" 

"Nothing,"  he  said.  "Once  I  had 
two  little  children,  and  you  see  you  look 
like  them,  and — I  have  not  seen  them 

this  long  while." 

90 


Alice  silently  reflected  on  the  number 
of  presents  which  Kris's  children  must 
have,  but  Hugh  said: 

"We  are  bofe  vewy  sorry  for  you,  Mr. 
Khwis." 

"Thank  you,"  he  returned,  "I  shall 
remember  that ;  and  now  be  still  a  little. 
I  must  write  to  your  mother,  and  you 
must  give  her  my  letter  after  she  has 
my  present." 

91 


"Yes,"  said  Alice,  "we  will  as  soon  as 
we  wake  up  in  the  morning." 

Then  Kris  lit  a  candle  and  took  paper 
and  pen  from  the  table,  and  as  they  sat 
quietly  waiting,  full  of  the  marvel  of 
this  famous  adventure,  he  wrote  busily, 
now  and  then  pausing  to  smile  on  them, 
until  he  closed  and  gave  the  letter  to 
the  boy. 

"Be  careful  of  these  things,"  he  said, 
"for  now  I  must  go." 
92 


"And  will  you  nevah,  nevah  come 
back?" 

"My  God!"  cried  the  man.     "Never 

—perhaps  never.    Don't  forget  me,  Alice, 

Hugh."    And  this  time  he  kissed  them 

again  and  went  by  and  opened  the  door 

to  the  stairway. 

"We  thank  you  ever  so  much,"  said 

Hugh,  and  standing  aside  he  waited  for 

Alice  to  pass,  having  in  his  child-like 

ways  something  of  the  grave  courtesy  of 

93 


the  ancestors  who  looked  down  on  him 
from  the  walls.  Alice  courtesied  and 
the  small  cavalier,  still  with  the  old 
rapier  hi  hand,  bowed  low.  Kris  stood 
at  the  door  and  listened  to  the  patter  of 
little  feet  upon  the  stairs ;  then  he  closed 
it  with  noiseless  care.  In  a  few  minutes 
he  had  put  out  the  candles,  resumed  his 
cloak  and  left  the  house.  The  snow  no 
longer  fell.  The  waning  night  was 
clearer  and  to  eastward  a  faint  rosy 
94 


gleam  foretold  the  coming  of  the  sun  of 
Christmas.  Kris  glanced  up  at  the  long- 
windowed  house  and  turning  went  slowly 
down  the  garden  path. 

Long  before  their  usual  hour  of  rising, 
the  children  burst  into  the  mother's 
room.  "You  monkeys,"  she  cried,  smil 
ing;  "Merry  Christmas  to  you!  What 
is  the  matter?" 

"Oh!  he  was  here!  he  did  come!" 
cried  Alice. 

95 


"Khwis  was  here,"  said  Hugh.  "I 
did  hear  him  in  the  night,  and  I  told 
Alice  it  was  Khwis,  and  she  said  it  was 
a  wobber,  and  I  said  it  wasn't  a 
wobber.  And  we  went  to  see  and  it 
was  a  man.  It  was  Khwis.  He  did 
say  so." 

"What!  a  man  at  night  in  the  house! 
Are  you  crazy,  children?" 

"And  Hugh  took  grandpapa's  sword, 
and—" 

96 


"Gweat-gwanpapa's,"  said  Hugh,  with 
strict  accuracy. 

"You  brave  boy!"  cried  the  woman, 
proudly.  "And  he  stole  nothing,  and, 
oh!  what  a  silly  tale." 

"But  it  was  Khwis,  mamma.  He  did 
give  us  things.  I  do  tell  you  it  was 
Khwis  Kwingle." 

"Oh!  he  gave  us  things  for  you,  and 
for  rae,  and  for  Hugh,  and  he  gave  me 
this,"  cried  Alice,  who  had  kept  her 

97 


hand  behind  her,  and  now  threw  the 
royal  pearls  on  the  bed  amid  a  glory  of 
Eastern  scarves. 

"Are  we  all  bewitched?"  cried  the 
mother. 

"  Oh !  and  skates  and  sugar-plums  and 
books  and  a  doll  and  this  for  you.  Oh! 
Khwis  didn't  forget  nobody,  mamma." 

The  mother  seized  and  hastily  opened 
the  blank  envelope  which  the  boy  gave 
her. 

98 


"What!    what!"    she   cried,   as   she 
stared  at  the  inclosure;   "is  this  a  jest?" 

Union  Trust  Co.,  New  York. 
Madame: — We  have  the  honor  to  hold 
at  your  disposal  the  following  registered 
United  States  bonds,   in  all  amounting 
to  -        -." 

The  sum  was  a  great  fortune.    The 
Trust  Company  was  known  to  her,  even 
its  president's  signature. 
99 


"What's  the  matter,  mamma,"  cried 
Alice,  amazed  at  the  unusual  look  the 
calm  mother's  face  wore  as  she  arose 
from  the  bed,  while  the  great  pearls 
tumbled  over  and  lay  on  the  sunlit  floor, 
and  the  fairy  letter  fell  unheeded.  Her 
thoughts  were  away  in  the  desert  of 
her  past  life. 

"And    here,    I    forgot,"    said    Hugh, 

"Mr.  Khwis  did  write  you  a  letter." 
100 


"Quick,"  she  cried.  "Give  it  to  me." 
She  opened  it  with  fierce  eagerness. 
Then  she  said,  "Go  away,  leave  me 
alone.  Yes,  yes,  I  will  talk  to  you  by 
and  by.  Go  now."  And  she  drove  the 
astonished  children  from  the  room  and 
sat  down  with  her  letter. 

"Dear   Alice:— Shall   I   say   wife?    I 

promised  to   come  no  more  until  you 
101 


asked  me  to  come.  I  can  stand  it  no 
longer.  I  came  only  meaning  to  see  the 
dear  home,  and  to  leave  you  and  my 
dear  children  a  remembrance.  If  in 
those  dark  days  the  mother  care  and 
fear  instinctively  set  aside  what  little 
love  was  left  for  me  I  do  not  now  won 
der.  Was  it  well,  or  ill,  what  you  did 
when  you  bade  me  go?  In  God's  good 
tune  I  have  learned  to  think  it  well. 
That  hour  is  to  me  like  a  blurred  dream. 

102 


To-day  I  can  bless  the  anger  and  the 
sense  of  duty  to  our  children  which  drove 
me  forth — too  debased  a  thing  to  realize 
my  loss.  I  have  won  again  my  self- 
control,  and  thank  God !  am  a  man  once 
more.  You  have,  you  have  always  had, 
my  love.  You  have  to-day  a  dozen 
times  the  fortune  I  meanly  squandered. 
I  shall  never  touch  it;  it  is  yours  and 
your  children's.  And,  now,  Alice,  is  all 
love  dead  for  me?  And  is  it  Yes  or  No? 
103 


And  shall  I  be  always  to  my  little  ones 
Kris,  and  only  a  mysterious  memory,  or 
shall  I  be  once  more 

Your  Hugh? 

"A  letter  to  the  bank  will  find  me." 


As    she    read   the    quick   tears   came 

aflood.    She    turned    to    her    desk    and 

wrote  hi  tremulous  haste,  "Come,  come 

at  once,"  and  ringing  for  the  maid,  sent 

104 


it  off  to  the  address  he  gave.  The  next 
morning  she  dressed  with  unusual  care. 
At  the  sound  of  the  whistle  of  the  train 
she  went  down  to  the  door.  Presently, 
a  strong,  erect,  eager  man  came  swiftly 
up  the  pathway.  She  was  in  his  arms 
a  minute  after,  little  Hugh  exclaim 
ing,  "0  Alice!  Mr.  Khwis  is  kissing 
mamma!" 


105 


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